Blessing the Pills

Yesterday, in my monthly writing group, we explored belonging. During our time together, I heard something I hadn't contemplated before: how we belong even to what is hard or difficult.

It's human nature to want to eliminate these difficulties, to avert our eyes and minds from those places where we experienced pain, loss, or hurt. But as Argentinian writer Fabiana Fondevila reminds us, “If we belong to the sun and its warmth, to the bud and the sprout, to the miraculous flower, we also belong to the wind, the naked branch, the cold.”

This image - of belonging to both the flower and the naked branch, to warmth and to wind - was in my mind as this poem took shape. And this poem wanted to be written! When the topic of belonging came up, this place in me that has both loved and hated my vulnerabilities - and my need for medication - rose her hand and said, "Please, pick me! Please write about me." And so I did.

At 50, I no longer hate myself for needing medication, or hate the medication that gives me life. I no longer hate myself for feeling depression, or anxiety. It belongs, a part of my human journey, and I yearn to care for it with the love that eases its pain. I may not have planted the seeds that grew its roots. But I can care for the field, and perhaps leave it well tended for the next gardener.

I remember the words of my beloved late therapist, Elayne, when I bemoaned my sensitivity: "This is the way the creator made you."

I offer my deepest thanks to the grace that has visited me, whatever forgiveness, mercy or prayers of my loved ones that I've been on the receiving end of - what miracle has turned my heart away from hatred of my need for medication to acceptance, to feeling cared for by it, to gratitude, and even to love.

The title is a nod to Lucille Clifton, and her poem Blessing the Boats.

Blessing the Pills

"I'm grateful I get to do this - even the hard things. I belong to the journey." - Augusta Kantra

With morning comes your slow
march through your pills. One
before breakfast. A large handful
with lunch. Two before bed. Some
come from the pharmacy, from a lab.
Some come from mineral, from earth
and sea. Some you hated and resisted
for years.

If meditation can cure depression,
shouldn't it fix yours? When it didn't
you wondered if you'd failed. Am I
broken because I need chemical help?
Am I more broken because I need
a second drug? But you've been held
by harshness and tenderness, the
lightness of your family's laughter
and your fear of their fear. Your
belonging means you've been
shaped by both.

You wonder about those who came
before you. What you know marvels
at their strength. Is this sadness
mine? Is it theirs? Is it ours?

But you love them, those who beget
your belonging. And you love yourself.
So you pour your pills into a silver dish,
like fine china you'd set for a queen.
You thank the scientist who invented
your drugs. You praise your doctors.
You bow before the pharmacy, where
the clerk takes extra time to save you
$8 or $20. You bless the pills
that bless you. You bless your body.
You bless your liver, her good work.
You bless the way you were made.
You, too, are beautiful.
You, too, belong.

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With a grateful heart, Karly